WarCraft 3: Under the Azure Skies
by Spiritblade
Summary: The story of the Death Knight Shateiel Iceblade - from the moment when he had been a young boy till the day he fell from grace. A bard, Asalla Lightbringer, tells his story. [Story put on hold]
1. Default Chapter

_**A War Craft 3 fanfic: Under the azure skies**_

_**Written by Spiritblade**_

**_Disclaimer: _**I do not own War Craft 3. If I did, I'd be very rich. Alas, I'm not. This story works well with my first WC3 (and first story on ): Under Wintry Skies. I've altered the storyline somewhat, but I believe that this should fill up well, in any case.

_**Prologue: Part 1**_

My name is Asalla Lightbringer. I have been a wandering minstrel for as long as I could remember. My calling was one that my mother had followed even after my birth, and my father and I had watched enraptured as her songs held entire crowds in thrall. Whether they be elf, dwarf or human, her voice held the magic that gave life to song and story. It is my most cherished dream to be like her.

My father had chuckled, and told me that my mother was a tough woman beneath that beautiful, gentle exterior. I looked like her physically, with my shimmering silver-gold mane, pert nose and large green eyes that a man could get lost in, but I lacked the abilities that had made her survive a harsh, hostile world. My father faithfully gave me those skills.

Being a ranger, he taught me how to use a longbow and a longsword, so as to allow me to defend myself. But, it was my mother that taught me the most important lesson. Being a minstrel is not an easy task, particularly when you dedicate yourself to finding the truth behind every story told. It is a quest not for the weak of heart, nor for those lacking strength and will. My mother taught me that the monsters she faced – and that I would in the future – were not necessarily those that were monstrous in countenance, or were of the non-human races. In fact, some of the worst monsters she had had to face had been human.

But, even so, despite the dangers, I accepted the challenge. My mother had been part of an Azerothian bardic circle called the Celestial Chorus and her recommendation for me to be part of her group had been well received. As an initiate, I had first travelled in the company of senior bards and dancers in their travels.

I learnt a lot from them in the four years I travelled with them.

Then, came the final test of whether I could become a fully-fledged bard. As is the tradition of the Celestial Chorus, I had to submit a story or a song of my own creation, and by the Holy Light, the acquisition of one was by no ways easy.

One could sooner convince the legendary Black Dragon Deathwing to masquerade as a mouse than win the approval of the Celestial Chorus's upper echelons.

I've submitted close to a dozen stories and songs, and the fate of most of them was either to be used as toilet paper or as kindling. I've handled rejection pretty well, but the contempt of the Celestial Chorus's echelons have had me pondering on whether I should just run that old donkey through.

When Lordaeron came under attack by a mysterious enemy, I found the stirrings of an epic story. There was the danger, the intrigue and the mystery – every ingredient that was essential to an epic story was there. In the company of an Inquisitor, Lady Ramia Schtauffen, an old friend of mine, we followed the Crown Prince Arthas through his quest to purge the land of the growing evil that had insinuated itself within the populace.

At first, the enemy was one without a face, but whose dark and terrible purpose had me trembling. Prince Arthas was a good man.

Note that I said that in past tense, because what he is now had me questioning if the man he had been ever existed.

He fought to defend Lordaeron, and Lady Ramia and I bore witness to the hard decisions that became harder. The decision to purge the city of Stratholme had been the most horrifying thing I was to ever bear witness to. I watched as the Crown Prince was abandoned by both his mentor, Uther Lightbringer – a man he had respected and whom he considered family – and by his lover – Princess Jaina Proudmoore, daughter of Daelin Proudmoore of Kul Tiras. There was a pain on his features that reminded me of men who had no one else to turn to.

I followed the Prince, albeit foolishly, to the frozen lands of Northrend. I still believed in him then, when he chose to pursue the demonic Dreadlord known as Mal'Ganis. I had been part of the massive army that he led to that frozen land. My book was heavy, then, with the weight of stories my fellow warriors told me, their experiences and fears, their battles and their trials. One thing my mother had been right about was that that the men and women of the steel blade were bad liars. Few of them had the aptitude, and it was easy to tell when they were exaggerating their exploits or pretending that they were not afraid.

Their stories were compelling. If no one recorded their stories, no one would remember them. That was why a group of my fellow bards followed me to Northrend. Someone had to remember these heroes who were about to challenge Evil right on its own home ground.

I barely escaped Northrend.

Barely.

Prince Arthas sank our ships, eliminating any hope of us ever returning to Lordaeron. Nothing short of victory over the undead legions of the Scourge, he told us,would give us that chance. In the warmth of frozen taverns that the army constructed, I sang as joyous a song as I could, and the camp followers danced, hoping to take away the fear that the soldiers had in their eyes. I knew that fear all too well, having seen it so many times. It is the fear that an animal has when it sees the butcher. It is a fear that that animal has when he sees that gleaming knife in the butcher's hand and knows what it is used for.

Many a soldier had tried to bed me, hoping to burn away the terror in an inferno of passion. I refused to give myself that easily. If I gave myself to someone, it would be because that man is someone I loved above all else.

Prince Arthas came close to being that man. Noble, warm, kind, he was the epitome of what a man should be.

But, I realised that – like every man – he, too, was all too fallible.

My friend, Ramia, began to see that Arthas was slowly losing his humanity as he pursued his quest to kill Mal'Ganis for desecrating Lordaeron and killing thousands with the Plague. It is because of Ramia that I am still alive today. Had she not made arrangements with a goblin merchant for the use of their blimps, I would have been transformed into one of the Damned. Even before he returned from the quest to claim Frostmourne from the crypt in which it had been sealed, Ramia knew thatthe Prince was long lost to the Light.

His heart had been blackened, slowly but surely, by the Darkness that had laid waiting for him. Like a patient hunter, it had set traps to weaken its formidable prey before swooping in for the kill. Arthas's unseen adversary had set traps in his way, knowing that the Prince's sense of righteousness and duty would see to it that he blundered into them. And blundered into them he did. The first step had been to change Arthas's anger to hatred; then, his duty to merciless zealotry; then, those he loved and respected leaving him because they trusted him no longer; and the final stroke was when they made his desire for vengeance so all-consuming that he no longer cared what he would have to sacrifice in order to achieve it. Ramia had seen it, had tried to advice Arthas, but the Prince was all but blind to her words. If Uther could not convince him, if Jaina could tell sway him, what could she, Ramia Schtauffen, do?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Oh, Arthas won his battle. He managed to kill Mal'Ganis as the Scourge fortress fell to the fury and the blades of the warriors of Lordaeron. I saw him strike the Dreadlord down with the runeblade he had acquired several days prior to the final assault that crushed the undead stronghold. I saw it. The Dreadlord crumbled to dust.

And then, several days after the victory, as we prepared to build ships to return to Lordaeron, the Prince disappeared into Northrend's icy wastelands. Search parties were sent out. Those few that returned told the remaining captains of Arthas's army of the vast strongholds of the Undead that dotted Northrend. Many of these unholy citadels were mobilising. There was no question as to their intended target. The artisans working on the ships soon redoubled their efforts. The first ships that were completed were used to transport the severely injured and non-combatants from Northrend, escorted by dwarven gyrocopters and dwaven griffon riders.

Weeks later, the undead host attacked the citadels and camps of Arthas's army. Careful preparation by Arthas's remaining commanders brought them some time, but defeat had been inevitable. Northrend was a stronghold of the undead legions. A mere 7,000 men and women will find it impossible to defeat the lurking evil that had claimed this frozen land as its own. Not even at its full strength of 30,000 warriors that Arthas led into Northrend would have been able to accomplish this feat.

Ramia had tossed me into one of the many goblin blimps that the Alliance had managed to hire from the goblin merchants in Northrend minutes before thefortress fell. I bore witness to the final trap Ramia had laid for her enemies. The entire fortress, rigged every inch by dwarven explosives, blew a smoking crater in the frozen ground and started avalanches for miles around, the sounds of the explosion like the roar of an angry God.

It would take over two months before the blimps finally brought us back to Lordaeron – and to the scene of a nightmare made real. The Kingdom of Lordaeron had lost its king – and its Prince – in one fell swoop, casting the entire realm into chaos. Prince Arthas had returned to Lordaeron before we did, a corrupted, soulless Death Knight. A mockery of everything he had once believed in and fought for. A black image of the paladin he had once been.

He murdered his own father.

Murdered him in his Throne Room, minutes after he strode towards it with the adulation of the crowd ringing in his ears. He had been accompanied by a group of elite Death Guard, human and elven warriors corrupted to the side of the Scourge. These Dusk Caste Blackguards were soon, I later learnt, the bodyguard of the Death Knight generals that led the Scourge's undead hosts.

Arthas escaped. He escaped the vengeance of the paladins whose Order he had once been part of. He had been aided by the multitude of cultists who had been waiting for that very moment. They had infiltrated every level of society – from the nobility, to the army, down to the peasantry – and when Arthas struck, they, too, reacted.

What had once been a victory celebration became an outright massacre.

We, the survivors of Arthas's army, were brought before the Tribunal of the Holy Light, the inner circle of the Paladins, to give our testimonies of what had happened in Northrend. Paladins are stout, firm and courageous warriors. It is hard to scare these men and women of cloth and steel. What I told them made them blanch. I had doubled as Chaplain and Confessor in Arthas's army, and the stories and fears I have written in my book is heavy with the weight of lives lost.

The Paladins rushed across Lordaeron to mobilise its armies. From elven Quel'Thalas all the way to Azeroth, the word was spread of the terrible events that had happened. Even those not of the Alliance soon realised that a new enemy, one more fearsome and more potent than the Orcish Horde, had come to challenge them.

Entire nations - save arrogant Quel'Thalas-mobilised to meet this new threat, believing themselves able to prevail as they had over the Orcish Horde. The problem was that this was not the Orcish Horde. Orcs knew fear, knew pain, and knew when to give up a fight when it looked hopeless. The undead have no such weaknesses. They were an implacable foe that could give even the staunchestwarrior a stern reminder of his – or her – mortality and their eventual fate.

Arthas had been Lordaeron's Crown Prince. That meant that he knew more of his kingdom's military strength better than most of its generals. And he hadn't been the only one. His master, the Lich King, knew as well, and had prepared long in advance. The plague that had so weakened Lordaeron soon swept through the lands again with renewed ferocity. Those that had died from the Plague soon rose again as the Scourge's undead servants.

The loyalist armies and garrisons soon found themselves fighting against those newly-dead, and those that had raised themselves from their decades – or centuries – old slumber. My songs, once used to soothe fears and give hope, soon became songs of Fury. My voice would echo above the clash of steel and screams, singing a paean of defiance against this undying evil.

It's surprising that the soldiers soon started echoing it. Against horrors like this, they needed every advantage they could get.

But, I was a bard first and foremost.

As was my profession, I started writing stories again. With the money I had earned, I purchased a magical book that would allow me to fill it with as many pages as I wished. It had been expensive, but it was worth the investment. I was 24 winters old when I first heard of the Vermilion Legion, an Azerothian legion that had been sent into Lordaeron to combat the Scourge. Known derisively as the Red-Piss legion, they were a motley band of mercenaries, thugs, disobedient noble children, assassins and thieves.

The Vermilion Legion was the creation of General Eisengard in the reformation days of Azeroth. He drew into its ranks the dregs of society and taught them the advantages of military discipline. The noble houses across the continents finally found a place where they could toss their rebellious and hot headed children, if only to save them from further disgrace with a swift and 'honourable' death. It was also a dumping ground for the outcasts. There are criminals in the Vermilions that are wanted by the law of the lands. If they leave, if they desert, if they break the rules, the captains of the legion would not hesitate to carry out the execution themselves. Being part of the legion and following its rules to the letter is by far the better fate.

Those nobles who are part of the Vermilion Legion are often scoffed and mocked in social gatherings. For as long as they live, the stigma would forever remain. Thus, it is in the best interests of every aspiring noble **_not_** to get tossed into the Red-Piss legion. Those that are, however, I find better than their 'noble' counterparts. They have little use for the subterfuge and wordplay that their courtly brethren favour.

Discipline was always a problem with the Vermilion legion. They would get into brawls and fights almost every other time and get tossed in the stockade by the local constabulary. But, when it came down to the crunch, the Red-Piss Legion's true colours show. These men and women are family to each other. Children have been born in the Vermilion Legion, and take their place in the rank and file when they come of age.

Where you come from doesn't matter.

What your past was doesn't matter.

What your race is does not matter. I have seen a Forest Troll teach squires how to use throwing axes alongside a High Elf that taught the archers. I have watched an Orc teach swordies the finer points of a battleaxe and a greatsword.

There is one motto in the Red-Piss Legion: Vermilion blood washes your past away.

The Red-Piss legion was sent in first, ahead of all the rest. It was said that King Varien Wrynn of Azeroth wanted to get rid of this embarrassing excuse of an army. At the same time, the Red-Piss Legion was the only legion he could trust to hold the line while the rest of theAlliance mobilised their forces. They fought in bloody battles across Lordaeron, challenging Arthas's armies even as the Burning Legion incinerated the lands.

Despite their victories, the Vermilion legion never won the acclaim that was bestowed upon most others. The rank and file of the Red-Piss legion merely shrug and say, "So what? **_WE_** walked away. The undead bastards didn't. End of story."

The Red-Piss Legion is a close-knit family. I have said that before. Piss one off, and you piss the whole lot off. They have no one in the world save each other. There was no greater demonstration than that when they clashed with the soldiers of the Silver Legion of Lordaeron to avenge an insult over a comrade they had lost because some Alliancejack-ass decided that he had been expendable. They virtually gave him away to the Scourge just because of their damn self-righteous pride and their petty notions of honour and justice.

And when he came back swinging a blade at them in retaliation, they blame him for being a traitor? Who betrayed whom first? He fought hard, from what I heard of the survivors. He was loyal. He needed help to hold a front that was swiftly destabilising due to the Burning Legion pouring their unholy hosts to aid the undead crush his army.

He got none.

And when a grand majority of the force got massacred, the Alliance command just went ahead and disgraced him further. They stripped him of his knighthood. They humiliated him. For a Knight to be assigned to the Red-Piss Legion after his initiation was already an insult of colossal proportions – and he smiled even as he joined them.

That man was Shateiel Iceblade, the one who became the Death Knight that the Alliance forces called the Angel of Silence.

I spoke to the Vermilion Legion dancer, Marina, a survivor of Shateiel's defeated army. She was beautiful, and her seductive, playful air hid the fact that she was a trained fighter. She could dance as well as any of the Celestial Chorus, but the whips she carried were as deadly as the blades the swordies of the legion carried. Even the most lecherous fool in the Vermilion legion watched their steps around the most beautiful members of their group. As went the wise saying, the more beautiful the woman, the deadlier. And in the Red-Piss legion, it was all too true.

Marina told me about her lost commander, before a swordie and 3 Crusaders from the same armysat down andgave me their accounts of the events that had happened then. They helped me put a face to a man the Alliance had deemed a traitor the moment they realised he came from Alterac, the treacherous nation that betrayed the Alliance during the 2nd Orc-Human War. The stigma had stayed with Shateiel throughout his life, and the hardship that he had had to endure had won him respect in the Red-Piss Legion long before he joined them.

As a commander, he had been inspiring. As a brother, he had been unswerving. And to some of the female members of the group who, blushing, told me that as a lover, he had been passionate. And together, as a man, they admitted that he was as fallible as they were. But, none of them had expected that the blow that brought him low had been one delivered by two women he loved the most. Alyss Woodfern of the High Elves and Raina Bladeblow of Stromgarde, both commanders of the Silver Legion of Lordaeron and Shateiel's immediate superiors. They had been childhood friends, bound by oaths and promises to watch over each other.

Always, they would watch each other's back.

But, when the two women strode too far ahead, they realised too late that their companion had been left far behind and overwhelmed by the wolves he had striven to guard them against. And, blindly, uncaringly, they cast him aside at the behest of the Alliance's High Command for a crime he did not commit.

Asundra Gladebow, a high elf sorceress of the Vermilion Legion, told me that Shateiel had many enemies. Many wanted him dead. Just as many wanted him shamed. And that night, those that wanted him brought low had had their wish granted. He left the Alliance encampment hours after his two childhood friends had stripped him of his rank, of his pride, and of his dignity. Even the survivors of the Vermilion Guards got no thanks from the Silver Legion whose flanks they had guarded tenaciously.

He could not go back home to the warm embrace of his parents because Alterac was nothing more than ghost-haunted ruins, destroyed in the furious advance of the Burning Legion. He had no army; a grand majority of his brothers and sisters of the Vermilion Guards were slain because he did not want to give way and expose Alyss's army to a flanking attack. He dared not face the rest of the Legion for what he had done.

Everything I've heard and compiled about the Angel of Silence, who is said to be the lieutenant of a mighty female Deathlord that rules over a region of Lordaeron known as the Shadowlands, tells me a story of betrayal, of love surrendered and of unspeakable hardship. The Vermilion Legion's soldiers are said to be liars and uncouth thugs by a majority of the Alliance hosts; I think not. For once, these rugged men and women may well be telling the truth that the Alliance had given over one of their own champions to the Darkness.

It is a mistake, I fear, that they will pay for dearly.

My mother used to tell me that there are two sides of every story told, and my curiosity has been piqued. The best way to ascertain the truth is to enter the lion's den and speak to the lion itself. I'm not stupid. If I were, I would have died in Northrend long ago. I know the risks, but I'm going to take them all the same. The Shadowlands – comprising of what used to be the cities of Alterac and the Violet Citadel of Dalaran – are now grim fortresses under the control of the Deathlord Seraphim of the Scarlet Dawn. The surrounding territories are watched over by both the living and the undead servants of the Seraphim of the Scarlet Dawn.

And if I do come out of this quest alive, I would have in my possession a story that would have make my parents proud. That is…if I come out alive.

**_Next Chapter: _**Prologue: Part 2: The Shadowlands.

**_Afterword: _**This story, telling a slightly altered variation of Under the Wintry Skies, holds in its contents the elements of Ragnarok Online as well as White Wolf's Exalted: The Abyssals. The latter depicts the Champions of the armies of the Dead, and thus, I believe they would do wonderfully for this tale. The creation of the Abyssals will be explained further on in the story and will not follow the one told in the said book.


	2. Prologue Part 2: Under the Shadow of Gl...

**Warcraft 3: Under the Azure Skies**

**Prologue part 2: Under the shadow of Glastheim**

Written by Spiritblade 

I woke up in a warm bed, a fact that surprised me more than the realisation that I was still alive. To my estimates, after taking a blow like that, I should already be resting peacefully in my grave. At the very least, I would have lost a limb. Fortunately, all of them were still attached. My wounds had been tended to, and the ache reminded her that not even the healing touch of the priests could fully take away the trauma that had been inflicted. Instead of my ranger gear, I was clad in a loose, if not scanty, robe that did nothing to hide the bandages on me.

It emphasised my lean, if not lush, figure. I felt embarrassed in such clothes. Where am I? Who brought me here? A quick study of my surroundings told me that I was in a Keep of some sort. The statues of hooded angels bearing swords and shields dominated both sides of the bed I had been resting on, as though to guard the sleeper.

The armour they wore was resplendent with the sigils of death. I paled immediately, and felt my head spin. Had it not been for the proximity of the nearby oak table, I would have collapsed to the floor. I knew I where I was. By all that was Holy, I knew where I was. And I didn't like the answer my mind trumpeted to me.

I was in a Scourge stronghold.

I was also not in a prison cell with the survivors of Razas's doomed squad, awaiting whatever fate them at the hands of the Scourge. Whatever it was, the stories told to me by the Alliance troops were not pleasant ones. Compared to their old policy of slaying their enemies and re-animating them as undead soldiers, the Scourge now attempted to convert their enemies to the worship of the Ancestor Cult. At the head of this most unholy, newborn, religion was the Lich King himself acting as Emperor and High Priest. Their methods were more insidious now, their agents elusive and intelligent, sowing the seeds of the Cult of the Damned within a dozen Alliance cities and armies.

What made them part ways with the Light, I wonder. Was it the promises of power and immortality that the Scourge promised? Or was it the fervent belief that Death was inherently superior to Life?

I strode to the balcony, and my eyes gazed upon a sight that made my heart stop.

A city stood before me. A fortress-city, yes, but one that was both beautiful and terrifying at the same time. The black skies above were teeming with spectral forms that dove and swirled. I could see the stars and the moon through their translucent bodies, and feel their icy touch as one of them dove past me. The buildings below were sturdy structures, and I could see light blazing from the windows of each and every one – a clear sign that a living family occupied it. The dead had no such need of such trivialities like light – or laughter and song.

The latter I heard drift in the night wind from one of the largest buildings. It was a bawdy song, the same song I hear sung in taverns through Lordaeron, but there was a darker edge to it.

I saw farmsteads in the distance.

What is this? Where am I?

I turn about, to gaze at a familiar landmark to the north-east. It was the Alterac mountain ranges. That would mean that this place is…or was the Violet Citadel of Dalaran!

I needed only to turn my head, and my eyes beheld the Violet Citadel restored to its former glory. But where the Violet Citadel of the Kirin Tor had inspired and awed all those that beheld it, the new Violet Citadel was one that intimidated any besieger that dared to challenge the might of the city-fortress's ruler. The shadowy shapes of Gargoyles swept through the air, and an occasional Frost Dragon sailed past the citadel, their harsh cries and roars echoing in the night air.

"It's majestic, is it not, Asalla Lightbringer?"

I whirled about with a yelp, and would have pitched over the balcony had a hand not gripped my shoulder with steely strength. I soon found myself staring into the pit-black eyes of a well-built man clad in armour. How in the name of the Light did he manage to creep up to me without making a sound? Long, dark hair cascaded gently to his shoulders, contrasting with the pale skin and lips. Two small indentations on his lips told me what he was.

"A vampire," I whispered, half in awe, half in strangled terror.

The man smiled, "Close, but not quite. Unlike the Blood Knights, I can walk in the sun. They must sink into the earth during daylight hours, or risk the wrath of the Unconquered Sun."

"Who are you?"

"I? I am the 30th Death Knight of the Scourge. I am the one who serves the Deathlord Seraphim of the Scarlet Dawn. I am also, incidentally, the one who had you spared. You are a bard," and he drew a thick book from his cloak, "A good one. It's been a long time since I've read stories this gripping."

"How long have I been out?"

"A full week. I apologise for hitting you too hard. In battle, I tend to lose control."

My eyes widened. I immediately recognised the smirking man before me as my memories of how I landed up here returned.

_The city of Stranbrad. Next to Andorhal, it had been one of the main suppliers of grain and livestock in the region. It had been a fertile land, long before the Scourge and their demonic masters came. Now, it was but a corpse-haunted city contested by the Alliance and the Scourge. Here was where the Alliance could get a foothold on the Lordaeron Plague-lands, an advantage the Scourge's generals were not willing to give._

_Captain Razas Silverbow of the High Elves had led a combined elven-human infiltration team into the city, hoping to take down one of the Abyssal Blackguard sub-commanders. She had been located in the northern section of the city, overseeing the collection of the corpses that the ghouls and zombies had scrounged up from the battlefields. _

_There was no question to the Abyssal's intentions. She had been intending to raise the dead with her retinue of Necromancers._

_When we finally confronted the Abyssal, I was shocked to see that she was human. The upper half of her body was totally bared, revealing the pale flesh and her full breasts, with the lower half of her body swathed in diaphanous silk. A silver skull dominated her torso, linking multiple chains that held her floating mantle and tattered cloak in place. Two enormous bat wings adorned her back. Her crimson-lips pulled into a smile as she tossed her glorious mane of raven hair, revealing a black circular disc upon her forehead._

_She raised an enormous hammer high, as though the weight of such a weapon did not matter to her._

_Her voice, when she spoke, echoed in the ruins of the city, "Now!"_

_And that was when an enormous black shape slice down from the sky, bathing all of us in black feathers, and I saw Razas's stout lieutenant, the Vermilion Legion Ogre-mage, Thunderfist, cut cleanly in half. We recoiled. When his body separated into two bloody halves, we saw his killer. And from the descriptions told to me, and from the horrified whispers of the Alliance soldiers, I knew who this dark angel was._

_The Angel of Silence._

_He turned his soulless gaze towards me, marking me out as his next target. I hastily tried to mouth a spell to bring this unholy angel down. What happened next was impossible. The Death Knight was at least 20 feet away from me. Within a heartbeat, he was within striking distance and his blade was hurling my broken body through the wooden door of a cottage._

_I remembered screaming…but the screams that followed mine as the trap was sprung chilled my heart. I did not need to see what was happening outside, nor need to hear the mocking, contemptuous laughter as the Death Knight and his retinue slaughtered Razas's entire unit. The last thing I heard was a voice saying, softly in my ear, _"You shouldn't have come here."

"It's you," I whisper, my voice shaky, "You are the one they call the Angel of Silence."

"An astute guess. Yes, I am he," the Death Knight replied as he dropped my book on the bed. I found my voice stuck in my throat, and the questions I had refused to come out. The Death Knight general turned towards me and said, "We have time aplenty, Asalla Lightbringer. You will not be leaving Glastheim for a considerable amount of time. My mistress wishes to hear you perform."

My voice returned, and it came out as a squeak, "Your mistress?"

He smiled, "Yes. The Deathlord Seraphim of the Scarlet Dawn. She knows of the bardic circle of the Celestial Chorus. And from the markings on your weapons and your armour, you are part of their guild."

I could not voice a denial.

"Where am I?"

"I told you already. You are in Glastheim, the city that has been built atop the ruins of what had once been Dalaran."

"But…" and I looked toward the city lights.

"Are you that surprised that the living stand alongside the dead?"

Damn it, but this undead freak is taking my questions out of my head before I could even voice them. "Yes."

He snorted and unbuckled his greatsword before sitting down on the nearby bench, "Most would be. Our master, the Lich King, changed his policies somewhat. The power of the dead cannot grow without the living. Thus, what you see before you now, Asalla Lightbringer, is His will made manifest. The Ancestor Cult reveres the dead and those that have passed into the Underworld, and for its power to grow, it would need the living."

"Your rhetoric reeks of blasphemy," I retort.

"Does it? To you, it may seem so. To me, it is an undeniable fact."

"Then tell me if those who worship the Ancestor Cult are happy with the chains your Abyssal masters place on them."

The Angel of Silence smiled, "Believe me, they are. It gives you strength to know that your loved ones are forever close to you, giving advice, strengthening you inside. Death is never to be feared, only accepted. And try not to believe the lies they tell you. I know the rumours that the priesthood of the Holy Light spreads. Children sacrificed…men impaled…women raped and then murdered…"

"Aren't they all true?"

"Once upon a time, yes. But not now, not ever!" the Death Knight whispered, conviction lacing his voice. I trembled at the rage and anger in his voice. So the soulless Death Knights still retain a semblance of their humanity after all.

A creak from the door made both of us turn. A tiny head, with large blue eyes and silver-amethyst hair, peered into the room. It was a child, perhaps no more than 6 years old. He had a hand-sown teddy bear in his arms.

"Uncle Iceblade?"

The Death Knight put aside his blade and went to scoop the tiny child up into his powerful arms. I saw the resemblance between the boy and the Death Knight almost immediately, despite the obvious disparities in age.

_'Uncle? More like father!' _I thought, but did not voice out. The tenderness on the Death Knight's face told her that much.

"Sleep, little one. I'll be here for quite some time to attend to Her Majesty. We have time enough."

"Promise?"

The Knight smiled, "I promise. Now sleep, imbecile. You've much to do tomorrow."

The boy nodded and snuggled against his parent, falling asleep in a matter of moments. The Death Knight put his son in the bed that Asalla had vacated.

"Your child?"

"One of many. Her Majesty enforces this decision. The child you see here is the offspring of the Midnight Caste priestess who lured you into the trap on Stranbrad. She looks after him, as is her duty. I do my best to ensure that I can watch over my children and be there when they need me. Being a father is a responsibility I will not avoid."

"What about their mothers?"

"I watch over them as well. I would rather have one mate, but when our Mistress commands, we have to obey."

"How many lovers do you have?"

The Death Knight's pale façade began to redden, and Asalla started to giggle. A Death Knight – embarrassed? Oh God, this was a good time to put it in. The Church's priesthood would have a fit when they hear of this!

"2."

"Oh my," I knew a mischievous smile was on my face, "Who are they?"

"The first you have already met. She is a Midnight Caste succubus Blackguard. Her name is Malia Poisonblade. The 2nd is a Dusk Caste Blackguard. She is the one who tended to your wounds. Her name is Uranus Blackfall."

"What about those two lovers you left back in Azeroth? I believe their names were Raina Bladeblow and Alyss Woodfern."

The Death Knight lowered his head, "I am not so stupid as to think, Asalla, that they will welcome me back with open arms. They were the reason I left to seek my fortune as a mercenary. I held many dreams once…like everyone else. I fought to earn my place in their hearts. Suffice to say, I lost to men better than me."

"Did you surrender your dreams just like that?"

The Angel of Silence chuckled, "You make it sound as though I ran away from a fight. It's just that I chose to end it before I shattered their dreams. Raina needed someone to support her as she fought to reclaim Lordaeron. Alyss needed someone to shoulder the burden that came with the fall of Quel'Thalas. I couldn't be both. But I knew the men who they fell in love with."

"You did?"

The Death Knight nodded, "I'll tell you more about them in time."

"And are Malia and Uranus replacements for Raina and Alyss?" I asked, unable to hold that question in. I couldn't help asking. I've seen women who have shed bitter tears at the perfidy of men. And being a woman myself, I understood.

The pitch-black soulless eyes turned scarlet, making the Angel of Silence look particularly demonic. I shouldn't have asked that question. It was clear that the Death Knight knew about such things, and the sheer thought of it enraged him beyond measure.

"I am not like some men who treat women as their toys and playthings, Asalla. I may be one of the Damned, but I still have my morals. Besides, in the society the Lich King is trying to create, the women are just as dangerous as the men and have equal chance to rise in power as their counterparts. The Dead makes no distinctions between age and gender."

I fell silent for a long moment, watching the Death Knight's child sleep in the bed. His face was quiet, peaceful. It was as if he was used to the undead horrors scuttling about Dala – no, Glastheim. Not many children would have been able to withstand the fear of facing such creatures.

"You do know you left some…admirers in the Vermilion Legion. They're quite unhappy with your decision, but they do not blame you," I finally spoke.

"Tell them – if my mistress does release you – that I give them my thanks. And that now, I am their enemy. They have their duty. I have mine. The Red-Piss legion does not fail that. If they do, they know the consequences. Tell them that. And tell them not to pity me. I made my decision, and I will suffer for it when the time – if it ever does – comes."

"I will," and I sat next to the child on the bed. He was already snoozing softly. I pulled the blanket slightly higher. The unholy powers of the undead had all but turned entire regions into a frozen land not so different from Northrend.

"I suppose you want to know why I joined the Scourge, don't you?" the Angel of Silence asked, "Was that why you took on such a dangerous mission to infiltrate the Shadowlands?"

I nod.

The Death Knight smiled, "Foolish. I've seen fools die for less, but at least, if you do, I'll make sure it'll be worth it. This is not going to be a pretty story, princess. Are you sure you want to listen to the sordid details about my fall from grace?"

I nod again, "All I ask is that you tell me no lie. Can you swear to that?"

"I swear upon the names of the Neverborn and the Dual Monarchy of the Underworld that I will speak the truth, and gloss over no events. You want a story, Asalla Lightbringer, and so I shall tell it."

'_That didn't take much persuasion',_ I thought.

"And if you're thinking why I swore so easily, rest assured that it's to impart a good tale. All stories have a moral lesson. Of which, some I think you already know."

I cursed inwardly. Can this Death Knight read minds?

"This story is also best told with Malia and Uranus at my side."

"Why?"

"Because…once upon a time, they were also part of the Vermilion Legion. They can tell you parts of the story that led to certain events happening – things I will not be able to tell you. I am a commander, Asalla, not a courtier. Red-Piss legion officers do not mingle well with the highborn. Politics was something my Lord Commander dealt with – and it was something she hated," the Angel of Silence grumbled as he stood up.

"I give you permission, Asalla Lightbringer, and extend to you the hospitality of Her Majesty Seraphim of the Scarlet Dawn, to walk free through the streets of Glastheim. You may not leave this city on pain of death. Look through our eyes, and see how we live. This is not an act contrived to deceive you, if that is what you're thinking. This is to show the rest of the world that the way of the Ancestor Cult is a righteous way. A retinue of 4, one of which will be a Crypt Fiend, will accompany you as you do so," he added.

"Why?"

"Because, to Uranus, you are like one of her daughters," the Angel of Silence smiled, "That, to me, is reason enough."

**_Author's note_**:

Okay, part 2 of the prologue is out. Now we shall get on with the main part of the story. The timeline will be like ours, i.e. Jan to December. The only similarity is that 25th December will not be Christmas, but the old pagan religious festival of the _Sol Invictus, _the festival of the Unconquered Sun.

For military ranks, this is how it goes (following Ragnarok Online):

Squires the recruits. Yes sir? Uh, no sir?

Swordies footmen/sergeant/lieutenant/captain. Slice-and-dice.

Knights Knights – heavy cavalry. Good for mincing mortals to bloody piles and undead to rotting heaps.

Crusaders 1 level below paladins, i.e.: Shrine Knights, have some powers. For the Light!

Paladins captains of the Crusaders. For every 50, there's one paladin. For the God-Emperor!

Archers I don't need to explain this. You know they're good at turning people into pincushions.

More to come…and why they're there.


	3. Author's Note Story put on hold

**_Author's Note: _**This project, WarCraft 3: Under the Azure Skies, is one that, I admit, has been intended for a one-shot story – fire and forget – but the sheer fact that I have not made extensive plans for it has left me floundering. As such, I will attempt to restart the project at a latter date, provided I have finished my work on my other projects.

Currently, I am concentrating on the project: Angel Halo – Time of Judgement (not to be mixed with White Wolf's exalted series that ends the world). You can find it in the Manga section of under Spiritblade (Fictionpress Acct) .

I apologise. But know this, I will return. It's just that I want to kill this one and several other projects before I return to WarCraft 3: Under the Azure skies, as some of those projects have taken years to plan. Having them scream in my mind for attention is not a pleasant repast.

- Spiritblade


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